


Little Heaven

by genee



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-01
Updated: 2003-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:05:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Lance writes everyday, no matter what, because it's all about momentum. And balance. Always balance. He doesn't know if his writing is any good and he doesn't care, because one day he's going to find the right words, and when he does, he knows he'll find Justin, too.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poofusgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=poofusgirl).



  
Lance lets out a long breath, closes his eyes for an extra beat, and smiles. He can do this. It's an interview, he's done a million of them, maybe more, and this one is no different. Well, maybe a little different, because Rosie doesn't ask him about the other guys, except for Joey and that's cool, would be cool even if Broadway wasn't Rosie's thing, because Joey's his best friend and the hiatus hasn't changed that.

Besides, he reminds himself, it's Rosie, and she knows all about the spotlight and the attention and what it's like to step away from all that and just be Rosie for a while. And she's funny, and she's always been good to them, good to him in particular. She even tracked him down at his mom's house just to say how much she loved the whole _Most Talented Kids_ thing, and then she talked to his mom for like an hour about gardening and public schools and home remedies, and now his mom's a bigger Rosie fan than ever.

And because, _fuck_. He needs to do this.

"So, Lance. Space? Still the final frontier?

"Ha. Well, actually, yes. I mean, I know I won't be going into space now, but it'll always be a part of me, you know? I'm proud to be a certified cosmonaut, and I'll never regret any of the training, because, ah, the stars have always been my dream. They were my first love, and I had to try, but no. It's not going to happen."

Rosie smiles at him, at her audience, at the camera. "Will you look at this boy? Does he not just melt your heart?" she asks, nodding, and there's a sweet rush of _ooh!_ and _eee!_ and _Lance!_ and lots of applause and then she turns back to him and says, "But Lance. Why didn't this work out for you when other projects, projects that were also dreams and long shots, have been so successful?"

"Well, there's lots of reasons, Rosie. But I, ah. I wanted this with my whole heart, you know?" Lance pauses, clears his throat. "And maybe the balance I've been able to bring to other projects was never really there? Balance has been an important part of my success, especially with NSYNC." Lance pauses again, smiling, comfortable with the high-pitched frenzy that comes with the NSYNC name. "In the group, there was so much trust between the five of us I could just give my heart to the music, and the guys, and keep my head focused on the business side of things, on the reality of what was best for us as a whole. The balance was always, uhm, just right? For all of us, I think, but certainly for me."

Rosie nods while he's talking and her eyes get all misty and for a split second his do too, and then the moment passes, and she says, "That voice! You should record again!" And the audience goes wild, and she calls him a cutie patootie and then they talk about small things for a minute and she invites him to come back soon and that's the show.

After, off the air, she asks him about Justin, and he shrugs, smiles, and says something non-committal about how pleased everybody was when _Justified_ dropped with such great numbers, and how well it's doing still, and how much work goes into making a tour happen. Rosie hugs him close sends her love to his mom.

As soon as he thumbs on his phone it starts buzzing. "Bass!" Joey's voice booms in his ear, managing to sound excited and wounded at the same time. "Rosie wrapped twenty-five minutes ago!"

"I know that, Joe. The question is, how do you know that?"

"I got friends all over this city, man. Real friends, who call me and tell me stuff, fucker." Lance hears Briahna in the background, telling her daddy not to use bad words, and her voice sounds sweet and serious. "I know honey. I'm sorry. Thank you. Hey Bass, are you on your way here or not? Come see us now!"

Lance takes a cab, because this is New York, and because he can do almost anything here without bodyguards, which is good, because he sort of let his bodyguards go, what with the hiatus and all, although he knows they aren't really gone. When he checks his voice mail there are half a dozen messages from people who really aren't supposed to have this cell number and five from his NSYNC management team and three from his new publicists and two from JC and one from Chris and one from his mom and none from Justin. He calls JC, and Chris, and then his mom, and he stares out the window as he talks and before he knows it he's at Joey's and Bri is squealing and Kelly is hugging him like she actually means it and he almost forgets about the Justin-shaped hole where his heart used to be.

 _Balance_ , he reminds himself, and when he swallows all he tastes is bitter, burning like doubt and fire all the way down. _Fuck_.

 **. . .**

  
The bus door closes behind Justin, and the whoosh of the seal sounds like an echo of his sigh. His ears buzz and his muscles thrum and he's still too up to feel the long slow ache he knows is coming, and damn, this solo tour is everything he thought it would be and then some. Exhilarating, thrilling, wonderful, of course, all of the above, but yes, it's killing him, too.

A throaty girl-giggle from the lounge pulls his eyes open, and _fuck_ , he hadn't even noticed they'd been closed. He hears the giggle again, and silly smoochy sounds, and knows already that Christina is on the phone with her little brother, hears the reminder loud and clear. Technically, he isn't touring solo.

He waves on his way through the lounge, hollering "Hey Casey" loud enough to be heard through the phone despite his tired voice, because Casey's a sweetie even if he is spoiled rotten, and because Justin really does like kids. Almost from the beginning of the tour, on the nights when Christina opens their shows this is where he finds her after, curled up in comfy sweats and her skin scrubbed clean, just a trace lip gloss, and even though their tour's on its last leg now he still isn't exactly used to it.

He doesn't make himself comfortable on her bus when his performance is the opener, has no idea what she does on those nights, and he doesn't really want to know. Because even if he misses the guys desperately after every show, misses their energy and their closeness and the simple press of their bodies on the bus, hiatus life is good. He isn't complaining, wouldn't ever, and besides, he enjoys having the bus to himself most of the time, enjoys not having to wait for the shower, not having to rush because Chris can never wait two fucking seconds longer than he absolutely has to, not having to jerk off fast and hard like he's doing right now anyway, his mind deliberately blank and his body soap-slick and tired and just needing the release.

Even so, he doesn't step out from under the spray until the water runs cold, and only then because he knows Christina's out there, waiting. Plenty of nights he shivers under the freezing water until his skin is pruney and his muscles are numb and he knows even his empty bus-bed will feel warm and good and maybe, maybe, he'll sleep without dreaming of something more. But tonight he towels off while he's still feeling half human, and pulls on his ratty old warm-ups and the soft green t-shirt he only wears on the bus now, and only when he's alone. Or when Christina's here. Or whatever.

They both drink the same kind of herbal tea for their throats, both like orange blossom honey better than clover, and both remember a time when they'd never heard of either and nobody'd ever heard of them, and so collapsing on the couch with her is an easy thing to do. He's known her half his life, at least, and she makes him laugh and sometimes brings him Ben & Jerry's even though they aren't supposed eat that shit, like, ever, and because really, he's lonely on tour all by himself.

She's never toured as anything other than a solo artist, although she travels with an entourage bigger than half the cities they drive through on any given day, so she doesn't really understand what he's missing. But it's nice to have her here, not expecting anything more than company, because they're both mostly gay, and because they're both mostly too professional to bother any more. Although they'd both dated Brit for a while, and they'd both had painful crushes on JC back in the day, and then again later, and maybe they both fucked their dancers upon occasion, so okay, not all that professional, but they do have a lot in common, and mostly it's not weird at all.

"Hey?" Justin yawns so wide his jaw pops twice and he almost spills his tea. "Uhm, T? The fuck are you doin' on my bus, yo?" he asks finally, because really, he does wonder.

Christina rolls her eyes, bluest blue surrounded by the palest wash of lashes, nose and cheeks splattered with so many freckles he's fallen asleep counting them more than once. "Shit, J," she says, smiling. "No one calls me that anymore."

"So?"

"Sew buttons," she says, just like she said when they were kids and she thought she was more grown up than he was, but she wasn't. She sticks her tongue out at him and scrunches her nose, and they both laugh.

 _Cute as a button_ , he thinks, his body relaxing at its own pace, his head falling back against the couch. Still, he holds his tea carefully against his chest, not drinking it, just letting the warmth seep through. "So, you're on my bus why, T?"

"You want me to go?"

"Nah."

"Good." She stretches, shifts on the couch, and her feet are in his lap, and they've been friends forever and it isn't weird at all. She giggles again, like when she's talking to Casey, and says, "I saw your boyfriend on TV, you know."

"Duh. He's in like three of the top twenty videos." He's smiling, only half-joking, not really serious. His left hand drops to her feet, rubbing automatically, amazed by how tiny they feel in his hands, delicate, even through the thick cotton of her socks. "He's Pharrell, yo. He's on TV all the time."

"I meant your _other_ boyfriend, J."

Justin closes his eyes. "What other boyfriend?"

"Lance, you ass. Did you know he sold his management company? Something about balance, or so he said. But he looks good, you know? I always liked Lance best."

He doesn't say anything for a few minutes, and neither does she, and when Justin finally opens his eyes and looks at her it's like looking in a mirror, and the blue eyes reflecting back at him are sad and sorry and neither one of them is smiling anymore. "Lance isn't," he says. "I mean, we aren't. Weren't ever. And no. He's not my boyfriend."

"Then he damn well should be," she says, and it sounds so right and so true and so much like something Justin has said to himself a million times, a million and one maybe, that really, it almost doesn't hurt to hear her say it out loud.

 **. . .**

  
Lance writes. Everyday, no matter what, because it's all about momentum. And balance, always balance, because he has to want it and need it and know it all at the same time, and he gets that now.

He sold FreeLance months ago and he knows it was a good decision. He knew it back when Meredith told him she wanted to go to college, wanted to be a regular girl again, and he smiled and nodded and watched her walk away from her career, even though he knew she could have made it, knew he could have talked her into it if he'd tried. He didn't try, though, and he's never been sorry he didn't. Not for a second. He didn't want to be _that guy_ in Meredith's life, not in anyone's, not when it came right down to it.

He thinks it was a good decision to hold on to A Happy Place, though, because his production company is exactly that, and because actually doing business has always made Lance happy. The steady thrum of contracts and numbers and projections is something he can't live without, a buzz he needs in the background while he writes and writes and writes.

He writes screenplays and poems and two and a half novels and what he supposes is a collection of essays. He writes mostly on his laptop, but he also has tightly bound notebooks filled with songs and lyrics and snippets of both. He never flips those pages back, though, never re-reads those words, not ever. He only looks forward, filling clean white pages with black-inked words, and only when his head aches and his heart is full and he can't possibly do anything else.

He doesn't know if his writing is any good and he doesn't care, because he has momentum now, and time, and this is what he wants, what he needs, what he knows. Because one day he's going to find the right words, and when he does, he knows he'll find Justin, too. He will. He knows he will.

 **. . .**

  
After the tour with Christina and the follow-up press circuit, Justin spends a month with his family in Tennessee and then he travels some, visiting almost everybody and making good on all the appearances and vocals and collaborations he'd promised in order to make _Justified_ happen. It's hard work, but totally worth it, because he's proud of his solo effort, and he doesn't want anyone to think he isn't grateful for all the help he had making his record the best it could be.

He's so fucking tired, though, and he doesn't feel very much like himself, more like a series of separate selves, and he thinks he should be able to do something about that but he can't. He's just flipping channels at home one night, hoping for sleep, and suddenly there's Lance, laughing on the Letterman show, and Justin's eyes blur and his throat closes and his cell phone starts ringing and he can't do anything besides turn everything off and call his momma.

Lynn decides he needs some time away, a break from all of this, from everything, and Justin would never argue with his momma. She makes some calls, and Johnny makes some calls, and three days later he's in Venice.

He thinks this is probably where they sent AJ a few years ago, after rehab maybe, but he doesn't care. His cell phone doesn't work here and the canals smell funny and his apartment is cold and mostly marble and somewhat leaky and it isn't even wired for television. He loves it on sight, loves it in a heartbeat, and for two and a half months he's just the kid next door. Just Justin, learning a new language and finding his way around this twisted old city, and not Justin Timberlake, American Pop Star. There's security, of course, there's always security, but still. These bodyguards blend, and he blends, and he thinks he might be getting closer to happy.

He has a favorite café in Venice, and a favorite long-haired boy, and a flower seller on the corner he's not sure he could live without. And he has a journal full of mostly awful drawings he really kinda loves, and his own Venice song, a favorite, nursed from the dozens he writes just for the joy of it, just him and his guitar and the words and the music he can't imagine ever living without.

Sometimes he dreams in that new language, especially now that he's back in the states and already forgetting. He dreams of Lance's voice, sultry and hot around soft Venetian vowels, so different from the Mississippi accent he hasn't heard in way too long but still so much the same, and he wakes up hard and sweaty and tangled in his sheets.

 **. . .**

  
It's his birthday, and Lance always does something special for his mom on his birthday, because without her it wouldn't be his birthday at all. This year, they're gardening. Lance breathes in sunlight like he breathes in air, feeling the damp earth under his knees, rich and warm in his hands, and he's sore all over, and he thinks he knows why his mom loves this. He thinks maybe growing things matters, really matters, and maybe it's good to be sore again.

He's another year older and the series he wrote for Showtime rocks and he sold another movie script and hiatus life is good and he's almost, almost there. It's the first birthday he's had in years without seeing any of the guys, but Joey calls and sings him a filthy birthday song, and Chris promises him a party to end all parties next year, and JC sends him flowers and calls Lance's cell number late in the night and talks and talks and Lance isn't sure what JC's saying exactly, but his eyes still fill with tears. JC apologizes and congratulates him again on everything wishes him a happy a birthday and Lance sleeps without dreaming, heavy and dark and solid.

He doesn't know why, but he isn't surprised when his phone buzzes at sunrise, isn't surprised he forgot to turn the ringer off, isn't even surprised by the giggle on the other side of his sleepy, "Hullo?"

"Your morning voice should be illegal, Bass." She sounds silky and smooth and easy, so easy, and right then Lance knows why he's always liked Christina. "I think it's still yesterday here, so, happy birthday."

"Thanks."

"He loves you, you know?"

"Thanks," he says again, and falls right back to sleep.

Lance dreams of eyes as blue as heaven and honeyed freckles and the softest sort of strength, and when he wakes up his skin smells like cinnamon and he's already writing, reaching for his laptop and finding the smooth pages of a blank notebook in its place.

 **. . .**

  
He's in the studio again, and it's good, it's real good. JC's producing a couple of tracks this time because _Justified_ was huge and he can call more of the shots without Jive breathing down his neck every other minute, and because JC is damn good at what he does and everybody knows it. They decide to record in Orlando instead of LA, and so he's hanging out with Chris and catching up with Joey and they're all here together and he's not thinking any further than that, because for the for the first time in longer than forever he feels like he just might be home.

When JC's fingers slide through Justin's close-cropped curls and JC asks him, "You still with us, J?" Justin laughs out loud because JC is the spaciest person on the planet but that's the third time today he's caught Justin drifting. "Hey," JC pokes him, "that ringing is your phone, man."

Justin has the good graces to hug JC tight before he plucks his phone from his pocket and takes the call. "Yo, T. How'd you get this number?"

"You wrote it on my hand a hundred years ago, freak!" Christina's laugh is sweet and musical and Justin laughs, too.

"It's changed, like, a million times since then."

"Maybe. But you haven't, baby."

"You're killin' me, T."

"You miss me?"

"Course I miss you. But I'm in the studio with JC, so, you know. Busy."

"Good, J. That's good."

"It is good. So why are you blowin' up my line?" Justin looks at JC and wiggles his eyebrows when he says _blowin' up_ , and JC laughs like that'll never get old and slips his headphones over his ears again. Christina calls Justin a spazz and tells him to tell JC she loved that song and wants to work with him on her next record. He promises he'll tell him, he will, but, "What's up, yo?"

"Your boyfriend was on _Regis & What's Her Name_ the other day. He's fabulous with the media, you know? How come I never noticed that before? And he's looking fine, too. Damn fine."

"Yeah, well. Tiger's always been good with the press."

"Not Tiger, you ass."

"Hmm," he says, but his throat clenches and his eyes burn, and he knows, of course he knows. "Well, yeah, T. All my boyfriends are fine. I'm a supahstar. It's in my contract."

"You know who I mean." Her voice is soft but she doesn't giggle. "He was all brilliant and humble, and his book is like, really amazing. Seriously. Did you read it?"

Justin nods, and his mouth moves but no sound comes out. Still, Christina knows somehow, knows that of course he read Lance's book, of course he did. "Good," she says. "That's good, J. You gonna see him?"

"S'posed to be a thing tomorrow," Justin says quietly, sliding to the floor and pulling his knees up to his chest. "We're all here, and, _fuck_. Having dinner or something. What should I do?"

"Dunno, J. What d'you wanna do?"

"Miss him so much," Justin mumbles, his forehead pressed to his knees. "Hurts."

Christina makes soft encouraging sounds in his ear, tells him more about what Lance said on Regis, something about change and balance and faith, something about another novel coming soon and a new project, something different and close to his heart. "If you really don't know what to say, ask him about that." She pauses, and then sighs. "Just be yourself."

"Right. Be myself. Like that'll work."

"He loves you, baby. He always has."

"You don't know that."

"Course I do. Just like I know you love him." She sounds so sure, and for half a second he wonders how she knows Lance so well and then he doesn't care. Christina's always known Justin better than he knows himself, and even if that makes him shallow, it's true, because then she says, "Don't fuck this up, J," like she knows he really could.

"I won't," he says. "Thank you."

 **. . .**

  
Joey's in Orlando already, filming with Universal again, but Lance always sees his goddaughter when he's in the city and Kelly said she didn't mind, so here he is. He's swinging Briahna in dizzying circles and she's laughing and laughing and his heart skips a beat, but in a good way. Lance thinks he must be doing something really right to deserve this little girl in his life, this flood of joy on a random weekday afternoon. Kelly asks him to stay for dinner and he does. He's taking a late flight and it's nice being here even without Joey, and not awkward or strange at all.

After they eat, he takes Bri outside and holds her high against his chest, her head thrown back against his shoulder and both of them staring up at the night sky. Lance whispers beside her ear, and her pudgy fingers follow his slender ones from star to star, and she looks from the sky to his eyes and back again, and he swallows hard, holding his goddaughter close. He thinks Kelly's smiling at them from the kitchen, but he isn't sure because his eyes are full and blurry and he can't really see through the shiny new lights in his heart.

When Lance puts Bri to bed he sings her a lullaby and tells her a bedtime story, and his voice is soft and warm and Kelly says he's a born storyteller. He drops a kiss on Bri's forehead and then calls for a car to take him to LaGuardia. It's time for him to go home.

Kelly pulls him into big Joey-like hug when he leaves, and tells him he must have grown up when she wasn't looking and she couldn't ask for a better godfather for Briahna. He smiles and blinks quick, hoping to catch the happy tears before they fall.

"Thanks, Kell. For everything."

"You're gonna see him while you're home, right?"

"I hope so. I mean, I never meant for this to happen, you know? He didn't call, and then I didn't, and then," he shakes his head, knowing she understands how huge it is, how dependent they are on each other, all of them, hiatus or no hiatus. "The guys won't. And it's good, uhm, to be neutral or whatever, but. Do you? I mean, is he okay?"

"He's Justin, honey. It's hard to tell."

And Lance can only nod and slide into the waiting car, because he poured out all those words and all that time and there it is, sweet and clear and so bright he closes his eyes just to see it better. He's Justin, but Lance has always been able to tell.

 **. . .**

  
They decide to meet at Joey's and go out from there, and then they decide to stay at Joey's instead of going out, or Joey decides for them because he likes to cook and it's been so long and there's no way they can go anywhere without attracting all kinds of attention and no one wants that. Except maybe, just maybe, Justin isn't so sure. If they go somewhere, he thinks he can ease back into the nearness of Lance, ease into the sound of his voice and the slide of his smile and the soft sway of heat whenever he moves, because if they go out it'll be almost like a performance, and Justin's always known how to perform.

But he can't hide when it's just the guys, he never could, and he's afraid he'll feel out of place and awkward and wind up making everything worse. He doesn't even know why they stopped talking, doesn't know how it started because it's not like they had a fight or anything, but he knows they can't go on like this.

Before he left for Venice he'd asked Chris what to do, and he remembers Chris shaking his head and saying _fuck kid, he's Lance, just fucking fix it already_ , and changing the subject quick. When he came back he'd tried to talk to JC, and JC had held him close and murmured pretty words in his hair, which was nice, really nice, but it hadn't actually helped. And Joey, well, Joey wouldn't discuss hiatus-Lance at all. Ever. And so Justin hadn't fixed it, and it hadn't fixed itself, and now he's not sure what to do but he knows he has to do something.

He reaches for the phone.

 **. . .**

  
Lance hears his cell phone buzzing but he doesn't answer. He's writing. He's still in his pajama bottoms and nothing else, hair sleep-tousled and he doesn't care and he doesn't want to stop. He's writing. Not on his laptop or in a notebook, although both of those are propped open on the table, too, but in a sketch pad he picked up at Publix last night, late, on his way home from the airport.

The paper isn't quite right, and the pencils he's using aren't right at all, but the words he's writing are pictures so he thinks maybe it doesn't matter. He's not any kind of artist, but once he's started he wants to see the images through, even if they are just outlines and scribbles and hesitant sparks of color, because he needs to finish this story now, needs to make it whole.

He hears the side door open and he doesn't look up. He doesn't know who it is but the footfall is familiar and only a few people have his security codes and he really doesn't care if any of them are here. He's close, so close, and he leans back for a minute and lets out a long breath, lets his world go blank behind his eyelids, trying to see the way Briahna sees, trying to see the way he sees in dreams. He takes a deep breath, and there's cinnamon-scent all around him, and then he's reaching for the blue pencil without even opening his eyes.

When he's done, the pencil he's holding is white and the last clouds are filled in and he realizes he opened his eyes a few pages ago and he's smiling now, matching the story in his notebook to these new sketches and it's all there, and something else, too, something dizzy and true, and he wasn't expecting this. He really wasn't.

 **. . .**

  
The breath catches in his throat and his body freezes and Justin thinks he's never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life. Lance is lost in whatever he's working on, his bare back stretched taut and glinting like pale gold in the morning light. Justin's heart slams into his ribs over and over, until Lance rubs his eyes and leans back and Justin's heart stops beating altogether.

He thinks maybe he should leave, slip away before Lance realizes he's there, but he really doesn't want to and he can't move anyway. He can't even breathe. It's been so long since he's been in the same room with Lance, and he's so different now but still so much the same. Justin remembers the way Lance's eyes sparkled when they first met, and the way his own skin tingled when Lance shook his hand that day, as if Justin really mattered, as if he was more than just some curly-haired kid with a dream. Now his bones ache and his jaw clenches and thinks he might be crying. He's been so far away and they haven't spoken in forever and there's so much between them and so much unsaid and still, here they are.

Justin's heart is suddenly pounding again and his body thaws and he moves when Lance moves, presses closer, and it's like a dream or a fairy tale, like cinnamon and stardust, and he thinks _magic, Lance is magic_ , drawing pictures with his eyes half-closed and focused far away, drawing pictures Justin sees in technicolor, glossy and perfect and more real than the simple sketches flowing from Lance's fingers.

Lance is close now, so close Justin could reach out and touch him, if he dared.

But even when Lance's eyes blink open, Justin thinks Lance doesn't really see him there, kneeling on the other side of the table and feeling so small in Lance's presence he almost wonders if he's really there at all. Then Lance looks at the pencil in his hand, and at the pages spread over the table, and he smiles like the boy he used to be, green eyes flashing so bright Justin wants to turn back time, trade in all those years and everything that's come with them, just to make sure Lance doesn't ever have to lose that smile.

 **. . .**

  
Lance isn't sure when he realizes the blazing blue lights across from him are Justin's eyes, but he thinks he must be hallucinating for real now, so when he whispers, "Hey baby," it's in his softest southern voice, just hoping to keep the illusion with him a little longer.

He isn't sure at all, not even when Justin whispers back, "Missed you," and he sounds sort of cloudy, wispy almost, like in Germany, when Justin used to wake up in the middle of the night, cold and homesick and so alone.

Two steps, Lance doesn't hesitate, and they're closer than they've been in years. Lance's hand slips along Justin's jaw, surprised by the stubble, by the crinkles in the corners of Justin's eyes when he smiles. "You're really here?"

"I'm really here," Justin says, his hand falling to the curve of Lance's bare hip, warm and smooth, sliding under Justin's palm, and _mmmm_. Too much, Justin knows, too soon. He stills his hand, fingers splayed on golden skin and trying not to press.

Lance smiles again. "You're really here."

"You're really beautiful," Justin says, their lips not quite touching, sweet as only an almost-kiss can be. His free hand flutters behind Lance, stirring the air over the table. "All of this, Lance. It's. It's you. You're beautiful."

"Hmmm?" he asks, turning in the half circle of Justin's arms, following the sound of rustling paper. Justin's hand slides from Lance's hip over his belly, grazing the top of the pajama bottoms Lance is still wearing, pulling them taut over the bulge of his cock. He tries to ignore it, ignore the fire burning under Justin's hand, ignore the catch in Justin's voice when he says _beautiful_. "This? It's just. Oh! You, ah, wanna see more?"

Justin swallows hard, because. Yes. Hell yes, he wants to see more. He wants to see everything, all of it, every word, every picture, every inch of Lance's skin glowing, Lance's body boneless and draped across his own. "Mmmm," he breathes, his mouth hovering behind Lance's ear, teeth biting into his own lip, itching to taste. "I do," he says softly, and it sounds like a declaration, sounds perfect and true.

Justin's thumbs rub slow arches under Lance's ribs, their bodies pressed too close for Lance to be sure where his ended and Justin's began, and it's hot, so hot, but he wants to be sure of this. "You do?"

"I do, baby," Justin says, his lips fluttering over Lance's throat, because he does, he really does. "Show me."

Lance twists against him, slow and lethal, and Justin grinds back, his fingers finding the perfect hollows of Lance's hips and holding on. Lance lets his head fall on Justin's shoulder, and Justin can't resist any longer, he has to taste now, has to, because Lance burns like wildfire and is half-naked already and they've waited so long for the right time and this has to be it. Has to be.

"Show you later," Lance promises, his lips finding Justin's and Justin knows how to kiss and it isn't sweet. Not this time. It's hot and sharp and demanding and good, so good. "Show you everything. Later. Just wanna fuck you now."

 **. . .**

  
Chris takes one look at them and says, "So, it's all better now?" and Justin nods, and then Chris flicks Lance's ear and says, "'Bout damn time," and that's it. Joey throws his arm around Lance and they're off to the kitchen and Chris is being goofy and JC's looking all serene and happy and it feels so fucking right Justin can't remember why they decided to take this hiatus in the first place. He knows Joey has movie deals now and Chris is putting bands together and JC's making all kinds of music and he's doing the solo thing and Lance is, _fuck_ , Lance is pure fucking magic, with his writing and his whispers and his long lazy fingers. And _fuck_.

Justin shakes his head, trying to clear it because he really can't think about that now. Lance's lips are still a little swollen and Justin's throat aches when their eyes meet and he's hard under his jeans again, but no. Not now. Now is for all of them, group time, and they need this too. They all do.

He knows he's right when he hands JC a beer and JC hugs him for like, ever, and says, "Good to see you, J."

"Dude, yesterday? In the studio? The guy with the voice was me, yo."

But JC shakes his head. "Not really, you know? Not this you, not the _us_ you, with the big smile and the sparkly eyes. Even your curls seem softer today."

Justin scrubs his fingers though his hair, and it does seem softer but he thinks that's probably because Lance has every hair care product known to man and Justin wouldn't have even bothered with extra conditioner if he'd showered at home. Alone. And again, he really can't think about that now, so he says, "Yeah? Maybe I'll let it grow for a while?"

JC's eyes light up and he squeals, "Curly curls!" and Chris bounces over and swipes Justin's beer from his hand and hollers, "With highlights!" before he plops down on the couch, dragging Justin with him.

"Fucker," Justin says, and JC giggles and squeezes in between them, and Lance and Joey wander in from the kitchen with a towering plate of something that looks suspiciously like fried ravioli, which Justin loves but doesn't ever eat anymore. He thinks his body's been the only thing holding him together since before the hiatus started, and he thinks he isn't as young as he used to be and washboard abs don't grow on trees, yo. "Fucker," he says again, this time to Joey, who throws his head back and laughs.

"You're too thin, man. Eat something, will ya?"

Justin's eyes flicker, lingering over Lance's body, still cosmonaut-lean, leaner even, and he thinks maybe they've both been starving. "I intend to," he says, and Lance actually blushes through his tan, skin glowing like warm peaches and just as sweet.

 **. . .**

  
Lance takes a deep breath and squeezes Justin's hand and Rosie's production assistant signals him onto the set. He can do this, he's done this million times, maybe more, and this time Justin's here and chewing his cuticles and nervous enough for both of them, and it's really sort of adorable.

"Lass Bass!" Rosie's smile is wide and genuine and she hugs him while her audience squeals and she's wearing the same perfume his mom sometimes wears, which is nice. He takes another deep breath and smiles and waves and finally he's sitting and Rosie pats his arm and they exchange the usual pleasantries.

"So, Lance. I loved your novel! Loved it! I wasn't crazy about your movie, though," she pauses and makes a face, "because it was too scary for me. It was! But I loved your novel!"

"Well, ah, thank you, Rosie. Thank you."

"And I understand you have something new on the way? Another novel?"

"I do. I have another novel coming out, probably in the spring?" She nods, and he swallows and nods, too. "It's not a sequel or anything, but I think you'll like it."

"It's not scary?"

"No," he laughs. "It's not scary!"

Rosie looks out at her audience and asks, "Is he a cutie patootie or what?" They _ooh!_ and _aah!_ and Lance smiles as the pitch rises. "And did you guys know he has a children's book out, too?" She holds up a copy of _Little Heaven_ for the cameras. "See? It's true!"

"Now writing that was scary," he says, grinning.

Rosie makes another Rosie-face, and Lance says, "Seriously! It was completely new territory for me, and I wasn't sure at all. But this story just sort of stayed in my heart, and one morning I woke up and knew it wasn't going to go away."

"What made you want to write it as a children's book, though? It didn't have to go that way. Or did it?"

"I think it did. It did, for me. Because kids are, uhm, so _real_ , you know? And kids books sometimes _aren't_ , and there are lots of stories out there, stories that really need to be told, and ah, this one just really mattered to me."

Rosie nods, and lifts a copy of his book from her desk. "It's called _Little Heaven_ , and it's a wonderful wonderful story. I love it, my kids love it, and the pictures are gorgeous! We read it almost every night."

"Thank you. I can't take much credit for the illustrations, but, thank you!"

"Tell everybody a little about it?"

"Well, _Little Heaven_ is about a boy who doesn't think he dreams at night, and how his whole world changes, opens up, when he discovers that he really does dream. Because everybody dreams, Rosie, and not just when we sleep, and ah, it's important because our dreams sort of make us who we are, you know? And if we don't know our dreams, we can't really go for them, and we may even forget about them when we grow up, and, well, who can be happy with forgotten dreams?"

Lance thinks he rambled too long, but it's Rosie, he reminds himself, and she probably wouldn't have let him go on if it wasn't okay.

"You know what?" she asks, raising her eyebrows at him. "My kids say, _Love you like stars, Mommy!_ and _Love you like dreams!_ all the time now, just like the little boy in your story. It's the cutest thing ever!"

"Really? That's so cool!"

"Now before I let you go, of course I have to ask about NSYNC. I heard from a little birdie that you guys are all back in the studio?"

"It's true," he says, and the audience explodes and he can't stop the smile spreading across his face. Justin's smiling too, Lance can see him offstage, which makes Lance smile even more.

"I also heard an NSYNC tour is the works, too?"

"True again."

"Hey, I'm on a roll here," Rosie says, and Lance shrugs a little, still smiling because he knows what she's going to ask, she almost has to now, and it's okay. "And what about the rumors we're all hearing that there's someone new in your life? Someone special?"

"Ah, sorry, Rosie. No, no one new." He meets Justin's eyes for just a second, clear and bright and hot, and he says, "But there's definitely someone special."

Rosie blinks, it's not the answer she was expecting, not one of the pre-approved responses he's supposed to give her, and then she's practically beaming. "You heard it here first!" she says, and her audience goes wild now, crazy wild. Rosie leans close and tells him she's really happy for him, proud of him, and then she holds up his book and says his name again and invites him back and that's that.

Off the set, Rosie hugs him again, and she tells Justin to be good and hugs him too, and then she sends her love to both their moms and says she'll see them soon.

Security whisks them away, with Justin there's always security, bodyguards and drivers and Lance sort of misses cabs, but can't say he's sorry to see the limo, either. Justin's eyes are smoldering and he hasn't said more than _want you_ and _beautiful_ and _sofuckinghot_ since the show wrapped, and Lance's nerves are on fire from the warm breath in his ear. Even when they stopped to sign autographs, Lance could feel Justin's arm against his, Justin's fingers dancing over the small of his back, and Lance knows they won't be allowed to make another appearance like this, just the two of them, for a long long time. He's pretty sure he doesn't care.

As soon as the door closes and the car moves into traffic, Justin's lips close over his, fierce and possessive, strong hands pulling him close, pulling him under, taking his breath away. The air in the car is thick, and the dark leather seats are soft and warm, and Justin's hips twist and Lance feels the last shreds of doubt burning between them, bright white sparks and ashes like hot snow and he's ready for this, for everything, so ready.

Lance loves the slick slide of Justin's mouth on his, doesn't want it to stop, but, "Sorry, baby, so sorry..."

"Mmmm," and Justin's hips keep pressing but his eyes flash open and he leans back a little. "Sorry?"

Lance misses the heat of Justin's mouth already. "Shoulda asked you." He licks his own lips, and then licks Justin's, licking the words into his mouth, kissing them in, hoping. "Before I said, to Rosie? Anything. About us."

Justin shifts, strong and graceful and he's sitting up now, holding Lance in his lap so they're facing each other and Lance hopes he never lets go. Justin's hands are everywhere, in his hair and skating over his ribs and wrapped around his hips. He swallows hard, and Justin's teeth are grazing his adam's apple before he leans back again to stare wide-eyed at Lance.

"Wanted you to say it, baby. Wanted to hear you." Justin's palm slides off his hip and over his cock and Lance has no words anymore, can only murmur low and rumbly, rocking into Justin's hand. "Waited too long for this," Justin says against Lance's throat, sucking hard, leaving a mark. "Don't wanna hide now."

And it's crazy, really crazy, because they have to, they can't ever, but it sounds real and true and just the idea of not hiding sends molten shivers down his spine. He slips between Justin's legs, fingers tugging at button-fly jeans, tongue tracing long lines of smooth muscle before he slides Justin's cock into his mouth, slow and hot until he's almost dizzy with it. Justin thrusts and Lance loves this, loves him, loves the feel Justin's fingers twisting in his hair and Justin's cock in his throat. He swallows deeper, humming, and Justin's hips buck beneath his hands, moaning sexysweet when he comes.

Justin lifts him easily, lays him across the long seat and kisses him softly, tasting and teasing and it's too much, too much. Lance's legs twine through Justin's, hips pressing up, and _fuck_ , Justin's whispering again, tongue in his ear, _so hot, so beautiful, want you so much_. Justin's hand dips into his pants, thumb swirling wet and slippery over the head of his cock, fingers wrapping around him just right, easing the ache and _fuck, fuck_ , he's dizzy again, stars blooming nightblue behind his eyes. Justin murmurs, _come for me, baby_ and Lance does, hot spurts that take his breath away. He's still floating while Justin licks him clean, might have missed it entirely except he tastes himself on Justin's lips, tastes them both there, and he can't imagine how he ever lived without this.

 **. . .**

  
"Your phone?" Lance asks, both of them still stretched out in the car, half-dressed and giggling like teenagers. "Your phone is on?"

"Course," Justin says, hands groping for his pants, and finding Lance's instead. He grins, and pulls Lance's cell from the pocket. "Now yours is on, too."

Justin finds his own phone, still ringing, wedged between the seat and the door. "Gonna take it, okay?" he asks, and Lance nods, still a little out of it. Justin pulls his jeans over his hips, sleek and fluid and so fucking sexy. His kisses are light and sweet now, and he's really not in any hurry to take the call. Lance pulls away finally, wiggling into his own jeans, letting Justin answer the phone.

"Yo, T," Justin says, his hand on Lance's thigh, rubbing along the seams. Justin rolls his eyes, laughing at whatever Christina said, and Lance thinks he ought to send Christina something nice, something very very nice. "You did, huh?" Justin says, and then, "He is, and he's damn fine, yo. No, I know. Wanna love him out loud, though. No! I mean, yes. I will. I promise."

And that's all Lance hears because his own phone is buzzing and Joey starts hollering in his ear as soon as he picks it up. "Bass! You guys have to get over here, man! Chris and JC are corrupting your goddaughter as we speak, who by the way, says she's dreaming starry dreams now, so thanks again man, thanks a lot. Fucker. And _special_ , you big dork! _Special_? What were you thinking? His ego's big enough already!"

"He is special," Lance says, curling against Justin's chest, breathing in the fiery scent of him, of both of them, together. _Cinnamon_ , Lance thinks. _Spring_. And it's the perfect balance, it's beautiful and perfect and true. "Of course he's special," Lance says again. "He's Justin."

  
   
 

\-- END --

**Author's Note:**

> My first full-length popslash story! Written for Julie's birthday songfic challenge. Happy Birthday, babe! Title and inspiration from _Little Heaven_ , by Toad the Wet Sprocket. Also touched by the Rascal Flatt's _Love You Out Loud_ and Christina Aguilera's _Beautiful_. Justin's Venice getaway probably wouldn't have happened as it did without Sandys' [Free Man In Paris](http://suitableforframing.mediawood.net/freemaninparis.htm), and I'm not at all sure what Lance would have seen when he closes his eyes if a hundred years ago James Joyce hadn't written, _the heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit_ , from which I borrow shamelessly, if not directly, for much more than I probably should.


End file.
